


To die in His service

by orphan_account



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: POV Second Person, There is only war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In life. War.In death. Peace.In life. Shame.In death. Atonement.-Final line of Litany of Sacrifice
Kudos: 4





	To die in His service

**Author's Note:**

> So this one is a bit different from what I have posted and what I continue to post. I just got this idea while on my heart medication and playing some Warhammer with some buddies of mine and couldn’t get it out of my head.
> 
> Enjoy!

Gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

These three sounds are your life, have been your life for as long as you could remember. They are your call of duty, a signal that there are still enemies of the Imperium and the God-Emperor. This thought is what awoke you, stirring you from unconsciousness. Your vision is blurry, your head is pounding, but still you push yourself up from the mud you were laying in. Your gas mask is caked with muck, your left lens is cracked, fragmenting your vision, but you push yourself to your feet.

His enemies must be eliminated. At any price.

You take a haggard step forward as you raise your head to the distant shrieking of las fire, bright red decorating the horizon and marking your destination. One foot in front of the other you move across the scarred battlefield upon which you lay, your vision slowly clearing even as your head continues its throbbing. You ignore it, He demands your service in his Plan and you would suffer any pain, any torment in His name. You feel your worn boot kick something hard and metal causing you to look down; it was a lasgun, dropped by a dead Guardsman.

To fight His enemies you must be armed, so you pick up the discarded weapon and continue on your path. Not a thought is spared for the fallen soldier, he served his purpose as he was meant, even as the distant booming of artillery fire echoed across the plain. The screaming of the rounds in the air warned of their coming before the distance lit up from their impacts, lighting the night sky for but a moment before darkness claimed it again. The sound of las fire and Greenskin war cries grow louder as you slowly advance, your blood running hotter by the second at the sounds of the xenos scum polluting Imperium territory.

They cannot be suffered to live, they must be eradicated. The God-Emperor demands it and so it shall be.

Your leg crumbles beneath you without warning, sending you into the cold mud once more. You are sent sprawling as pain lances through your body. The pain would have been crippling to a normal soldier, yet you are anything but. You have a part to play and naught but death will stop your indomitable march.

Once more, like a spectre of the dead, you pull yourself to your feet, your grip around your weapon tight with renewed purpose as you begin your now staggering march anew. You are nearing the battle, the sounds nearly deafening to you now after so long away from the fighting. An artillery round lands some distance away from you, the death-filled light silhouetting you against the backdrop of the abandoned field behind you even as it grants you vision of your fellow soldiers firing at the encroaching Greenskins. The Guardsmen were entrenched and firing at the blood crazed mass charging upon them like hounds from the Warp, the heavy lasgun emplacement glowing red from near overheat as it unleashed shot after shot of red lances into the horde.

Rage fills you, righteous fury guiding your hands as you lift the battered gun in your grasp, pointing it at the oncoming Greenskins and pull the trigger. The gun kicks into your shoulder as your own red lines join the dance your fellows have held, disappearing into the churning mass of writhing bodies with no sign of stopping. Their charge is relentless but so are you and you are keen to remind them, squeezing your trigger and unleashing your red beams anew. A soldier in the entrenched position notices you, calling out and waving over to you to join them, but you pay them no mind.

Your service is required.

Your gun whines suddenly, the telltale sign of a dead pack, and you lower your gun mechanically. You hear your fellow Guardsmen cry out in fear as the xenos come ever closer, close enough you can make out their slavering faces and crooked, jagged maws in the night, but you are without fear. You do not remember ever feeling that emotion, why would you, and you yank out the empty pack before replacing it with one of your last that hangs from your bandolier.

Once more, your gun is raised. Once more, the trigger is pulled. Once more, you send rounds into the enemy.

You take step after step as your gun shrieks, every other step sending stabbing pain up your body that is ignored. Your eyes, your attention, are fixated on your foe; your determination will not be extinguished. The charge brings them close, one disgustingly large hand swinging out and blindsiding you as it neared, sending you flying into the muck once more. You land with a grunt and prepare to rise once more before a green hand grabs your trench coat and hoists you into the air.

You look down and meet the eyes of the disgusting creature that holds you, that is obstructing you from performing your duty. It raises its other arm, a long, jagged blade residing in it, its intention clear even as it speaks in its disgusting voice. You care not for its words and instead yank out your knife from its sheath, slamming the blade into the creature’s forearm. It cries out in pain and it’s grip is loosened, dropping you to the ground in the process. You move immediately even as the impact leaves your leg even more damaged than before and leap at the xenos, stabbing your knife into its obese head with unparalleled rage.

The creature’s screaming continues, swears spilling forth from it’s maw but you seek to silence it permanently, so you yank your knife out and slam it into the cranium once more. Again, you pull it out and again you shove it into the green beast, over and over again until it’s gurgling ceases to grate your ears. You drag your knife out of the creature and rise to observe the battle only to find it one the Guardsmen are swiftly losing. The xenos numbers are simply too high, not unlike a large wave crashing against a rock, but the sight sets your fury alight once more.

You spy a dead soldier near you, his body pounded into the mud, battered and broken, but his ammunition is still intact. You stagger over to it, the howling mad beasts around you ignoring you for the moment, and you yank the dead man’s belt of grenades from the corpse. You throw the belt over your shoulder before you observe the horde; where would you deal the biggest blow?

Almost immediately, you see your prey, a large brute with a jagged tank and cobbled together flamer strapped to its arm. It is setting the soldiers that had been manning the heavy las on fire, laughing at their screams as it does so. It is perfect and you run as fast as you can at it, your focus solely on the creature you want dead-that He wants dead. The slobbering, disgusting aliens around you ignore you, perhaps thinking your staggered movements label you akin to a harmless baby as they focus on the Guardsmen still alive and fighting back. Ever closer, you move toward the large creature until you are close enough that its stench floods your mask and you can make out tribal markings decorating the bulging muscles.

Wordless, you leap at the freak of nature and grab the tank on its back with one arm. The Greenskin realizes you are on it, trying to grab at you but foiled by its obscene frame, yet you pay it no further mind as you grab at one of the pins of your own grenades that remained. You silently pray to the God-Emperor that His Glory shine forth as the second tick by, your hand unoccupied with maintaining your hold on the lumbering Greenskin’s tank grabbing and pulling at the pins rabidly. Rage guides your actions, pain fuels you, zeal protects you as it always has even as the first grenade explodes on your belt.

A chain reaction is triggered and the rest of your grenades detonate as do the ones you grabbed from the dead soldier, the tank you grab on to desperately following suit. You and the Greenskins around you are engulfed in fire and you are sent flying through the air. You are certain your legs are missing, only the Emperor’s Holy and Righteous Light could protect you from the pain and you are unworthy of his Blessing. You land on the muck once more as numbness and cold overtake you, your vision focused on the night sky above the carnage.

Gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

These three sounds are your life, have been your life for as long as you could remember. They are your call of duty, a signal that there are still enemies of the Imperium and the God-Emperor. You have performed that duty as was expected of you, you have served your purpose, your part in His plan.

His enemies must be eliminated. At any price.

**Author's Note:**

> Well.
> 
> I have nothing to put here really, this was just an impulse write that I did in a daze for about an hour and a half. I don’t know man, I wish I could channel this kind of energy if my other stories.


End file.
